


No Matter How Far Away You Roam

by tardisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Gen, M/M, Post 9x09: Holy Terror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisy/pseuds/tardisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To the recipient, it read like half of a conversation.</p><p>Like an answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Matter How Far Away You Roam

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted for [12 Days of Destiel](http://12daysofdestiel.tumblr.com/post/70511862964/author-tardisy-no-matter-how-far-away-you).
> 
> Happy holidays!

 

“Anything else I can get for you boys?”

“Just the bill, I think. Yeah?” Dean said, glancing at his two companions for confirmation before flashing a smile at the waitress. “Yeah.”

“You got it, sweetheart.” With a wink, she spun away, snapping her gum, leaving the scent of peppermint wafting in her wake like a holiday specter.

The cracking vinyl creaked beneath him as Dean settled back into the booth. Across from him, Sam was turned toward the window, watching the falling snow drift between the twinkling Christmas lights circling the windows and roof of the diner. His brother smiled when passerby on the sidewalk startled and laughed at the motion-activated Santa perched near the entrance. (In Dean’s professional opinion, the goddamned thing was possessed, the slow, distorted _Ho, ho, ho_ sounding like something straight from the Pit. Of course, in a professional’s professional opinion, it probably just needed new batteries, not an exorcism.) In that moment, Sam looked happy and, disregarding the fresh bruise darkening his cheekbone (a souvenir from their most recent outing), healthy.

The table jerked suddenly, making the cups and condiment basket rattle. Dean jumped as his brain irrationally supplied an image of Motion-Activated Santa sneaking in from below, bent on revenge.

“Sorry,” Cas rumbled beside him, tucked against the wall. “Bumped it.” Dean saw the tips of his salt-stained boots peek out from beneath the tabletop, stretched to rest on the bench next to Sam.

Sam reached out to tug at his shoelaces playfully, reassuring him. “S’okay, Cas.” Grunting in response, Castiel returned his gaze to his apparently fascinating cup of coffee. Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye, watched as his slender fingers curled almost reverently around the coffee mug. He let them rest there for a moment before he pressed them more firmly against the chipped ceramic, as though he was trying force the residual warmth into his flesh. There was a small frown gracing his face, and he shifted restlessly, but was otherwise quiet.

Which was pretty much his M.O. lately. Dean couldn’t help but notice that Cas had been especially quiet since he angeled up again. It had been varying shades of silence, mercurial and perplexing. By now, Dean believed he was fluent _Castiel_ : in his silences, in his movements, in the spaces between his words. But the way he had been acting lately – it was different, and Dean was still juggling his own concern and desire to puzzle him out with Cas’ apparent need for some space.

At the end of the day, though, Dean was worried about him. Which was pretty much his own M.O., always. He had asked Cas, at first, what was going on, but Cas would deflect, and Dean didn’t want to push for fear of damaging their healing relationship.  He figured – he hoped – Cas would open up when he was ready. Dean sighed, looking into the dregs of his own mug.

It had been a long few months for all of them, full of lies, of distance, of pain. Dean felt like he had been living in a desperate, panicked fog for so long, and he was still just shaking it off, getting his bearings again _._ The disaster with Sam, with Cas, with _Kevin_ –

But it was better, generally. Sam grinned at him more, like he used to, didn’t hold his shoulders stiff in a grim parody of Eze– _Gadreel_ when Dean brushed past him. Cas would leave to attend to his own business on the angel-war front, but never stayed away for long. He _stayed,_ as much as he ever did. Granted, he didn’t quite meet Dean’s eyes these days, but, then again, he didn’t seem to do that with anyone. There was a lingering ache Dean knew they all felt, but he also believed that they were more or less on their way to forgiving him, if they hadn’t already.

Dean cleared his throat roughly, covering it belatedly with as a cough. Needless to say, he didn’t expect to be _here_ , weeks after everything. After Sam left and came back. After Cas got some mojo and stuck around. After the three of them gave Kevin an ending he deserved, after all that he hadn’t. _Here,_ coming down from the adrenaline of a hunt, the three of them all in one ragged piece, together.  _Here_ , in a cozy diner, eating dinner with the two people he loved most, his brother smiling stupidly at the Christmas lights and festive music playing from the jukebox ( _which was wearing a Santa hat, Jesus Christ_ ), and Cas, while strangely quiet and thoughtful, safe and warm beside him. For the first time in a while, he felt like everything might eventually be okay.

“Dean.” Sam’s eyes and mouth were set in concern as he waved the bill under Dean’s nose.  He could feel Cas staring at the side of his face, and when Dean looked he had his head tilted curiously and his hand was creeping its way across the table, toward Dean’s sleeve. “Dude, you with us?”

“Uh, yeah. Just. Thinking.”

Sam chuckled as he slipped his arms into the sleeves of his coat. “Well, don’t think _that_ hard. You’ll hurt yourself.” He groaned dramatically as he heaved himself out of the booth. Looking down at Dean, a smirk spread across his face. “Then again, it probably wouldn’t hurt to exercise those brain cells every few decades or so.”

“Ha-frigging-ha.” Dean crumpled up a napkin and pinged it at his brother’s forehead with deadly precision. “Go pay the bill, Rudolph.”

“See, even your comebacks need work.”

“Your face needs work.” He pointed at the shadow under Sam’s eye. “Shiner. Rudolph had a shiner. Well, it was his _nose_ , but still – “

“Oh my god,” Sam shook his head in mock disgust. “I’m going to the bathroom. You” – he shoved the bill at Dean – “pay. I’ll meet you guys outside.”

Making a face at Sam’s retreating back, Dean dug into his pocket for his wallet. “Cas,” he muttered, low and warning. “Quit staring.”

He didn’t. Cas’ voice was rough from disuse when he murmured, “Are you alright?”

Dean shook his head, counting out bills for the tip and tucking them between the salt and pepper shakers before turning to Cas. His weighty gaze dropped immediately, focusing on anything but Dean’s eyes.

“Hey. You don’t get to ask me that ‘til you answer me. Are _you_ alright?” Castiel clenched his jaw briefly. “C’mon, man.” Nudging him lightly, he joked, “I mean, if the Dylan tunes are bugging you, it’s cool. Dude’s got no business singing about little drummer boys and chestnuts over an open fire.” He grinned at Cas, trying to coax a response out of him. None was forthcoming, and his smile faded. “Cas,” he tried, softer. “Talk to me.”

Some of the tension in Castiel’s shoulders eased, causing him to slump closer to Dean. Cas seemed to be working up to something, and Dean felt a nervous anticipation trip up his spine.

“Dean – “

“You guys are still here?”

Dean jerked away from Cas in surprise as Sam reappeared, rubbing his hands together. “Yeah, yeah,” he replied, rolling his eyes as he stood and stretched. “Start walking, Gigantor.”

Sam bowed slightly and gestured for him to pass. “Age before beauty.”

Dean snickered and turned to Castiel. “Well, if it’s age before beauty then Cas should – “

But the angel was already sliding past them both, heading for the line at the cash register.

  
*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

“He’s not in the bathroom, Dean.”

Dean huffed in frustration, leaving lingering vapor clouds to hang high about his head. “Yeah, well, he’s not out here either.” The concern coursing through his veins was more than enough to ward off the winter chill.  “Where the hell did he go? Something must’ve got him; it’s not like he can just zap in and out anymore, just like that,” Dean, pacing, snapped his fingers to illustrate the point. The movement was rewarded with a sluggish _Ho, ho, hooooooooh_ from Motion-Activated Santa. Planting his feet firmly in the snow, he glared at it and raised his middle finger slowly and defiantly.

“Dude, did you just flip off Santa Claus?”

“That asshole had it coming, Sam!” His lips curled in an angry sneer.

“Okay, okay.” Sam raised his hands in an effort to placate him.

_Ho, hooo. Hoo..oooo…ooooh._

“Son of a bitch.” Suddenly, taking out his frustration on a bearded plastic man seemed like the best course of action.

“Dean! Stop.” Sam grabbed at his brother as he advanced on his target. “Listen.”

Faintly, Dean could hear a soft, melodic murmur. Singing. “What…?” he trailed off, turning toward the source of the sound. In the distance, kitty-corner to the diner, sat a large stone church with a life-sized manger set up near the front entrance. Nearby, a sign proclaimed, _Christmas Concert Tonite 7:30 PM_ , in cheerful, rounded letters. The faint light from within illuminated the stained glass, leaving spills of color on the white canvas of the ground.

Dean’s breath punched out of him as his heart lurched in cautious hope. “You think?”

“Yeah.” His brother’s voice was as soft as the falling snow. “I’ll wait here.” 

  
*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

The warmth of the church and the spice of incense and pine almost left him breathless as he pushed inside. A few heads briefly turned to see the late-comer; only one person, an elderly woman, frowned at Dean in disapproval for the gust of cold air that accompanied his entrance. He smiled nervously and winked at her, but she was unmoved, only looking him up and down once before turning her attention back to the concert. Dean scanned the crowd for any sign of a tan coat and dark, messy hair. Panic spread from the center of his chest when he didn’t see Cas, and _no, not again, not now, please, no_. Pressing back against the heavy wooden door, he turned to leave, and only then did he notice the side-pew, farthest away from him, tucked into the darkest corner. There, alone, far removed from the rest of the audience, shoulders hunched and looking utterly defeated, was Castiel.

Dean rubbed his hand over his face, taking a deep breath in relief, before he made his way over to the angel.

“Hey there. Mind if I grab some pine?” he murmured, rapping his knuckles lightly on the bench.

Castiel didn’t look up to acknowledge him, but he slid over to allow Dean enough room to sit.

“So, uh. Fancy meeting you here.” _Smooth, Winchester_. He didn’t know if it was the church, or Cas, or their unfinished conversation that was making that anxious energy surge through him again.

Cas inclined his head toward Dean, and when he spoke softly his voice was contrite. “You were looking for me.”

The pew groaned as Dean stretched his legs. They were pressed close, elbows and knees knocking together; neither one moved away. “You just disappeared. You scared the fuck out of me.”

Staring at the cross hanging above the altar, Cas tilted his face toward Dean, eyebrow quirked pointedly.

“Sorry. You scared the _fudge_ out of me.” Castiel almost smiled, then; Dean counted it as a victory. “You can’t just up and go like that, Cas. I was thinking some dic— some _thing_ snatched you.”

The shadows in his eyes darkened again, the blue of them not as vibrant as Dean remembered, before the Gas ‘n’ Sip, before the lies, before _We have to talk_. He looked tired, lost, and it made Dean’s chest ache.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just heard the music, and saw the lights… it’s what people do, don’t they?” When turned back toward the choir, the nearby candlelight caught him just right, making the angles of his face softer, and the wet shine of his eyes and dry tracks down his cheeks more pronounced.

Dean felt just as helpless as he had every other time he had seen the vulnerability leaking through the cracks in Cas’ careful control: perched on a hill while demon meatsuits smoked below; standing next to the Impala behind an abandoned warehouse; sitting across from him in a stale motel room. It was the same, only the scenery had changed, this time playing out in secluded corner of a church, as pine garland dripped down the walls and Christmas carols rebounded from the rafters. Even having lived through it before, he still came up empty, and Dean could only study the dignified lines of Cas’ profile as he stared blankly toward the altar.

“Talk to me, buddy. Please. If you’re pissed at me that’s fine but still –”     

“Dean,” Castiel breathed. “It’s not you.” There was a pause before he added, “Not _just_ you.”

Dean’s stomach sunk. Despite wanting Cas to get it out, he didn’t know if he was ready to hear it.

“It’s. It’s many things, Dean.” Castiel pressed his lips together, a thin line drawn across his face. The choir swelled joyously, and he listened for a few long moments. When he spoke again, it was almost as though he was speaking to himself, would be revealing his quiet confessions whether Dean was there or not.  “I am an angel, yet I am not, because I was human, and I cannot forget. I can’t forget hunger, and desire, and fear. I cannot forget irrational anger, and passion, and sadness, and exhaustion. I can’t forget how it felt to be completely alone, in the dark, in the silence, with nothing and no one.”

Dean braced himself as Castiel faced him fully, but his eyes were only somber, not accusing as he thought they might be. “I can’t forget what it felt like, what it feels like, to be without a place to call home. To be without ties to a place, to a species, to be left to the wind. To truly want those things.” He exhaled sharply. “I knew these things before, Dean. I thought I did. But I didn’t _know_.” Applause from the audience distracted him briefly, and he sighed.  “I have never been quite right, but it feels very different now. What am I, Dean?” he asked softly, obviously not expecting an answer. “Am I a human with stolen grace? Am I an angel with a soul? Am all of these things? None? Such a creature doesn’t, should not, exist. Yet, here I am.” He chuckled without mirth, shaking his head. “It is strange. I have not found a home in Heaven for a long time, and I could not find one on Earth. Where, then, do I belong? After all that I have done? Now that I am this?”

It was the most he had spoken in days, and the most he had so blatantly revealed to Dean in one sitting within memory. Naturally, with perfect timing, Dean was speechless, mind racing for something to say.

 “Cas,” he choked. He laid a firm hand over the angel’s knee, trying to ground them both. “Cas. You’re just _you._ And you _do_ have a home, I – “   

“Dean, please,” Cas muttered, a slight edge cutting through. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Dean’s teeth clicked as his mouth snapped shut. The need to comfort him was overwhelming, but Castiel had no use for words right now. And Dean understood. Seemingly empty promises, meant to soothe but leaving you emptier in their wake. That need for something tangible, because words could be cold comforts, easily dispatched and fleeting. After everything that Castiel had been through, that _they_ had been through, words weren’t enough. Even if he could bring himself to say them, and mean them, every last one. _I’m sorry. I didn’t want to push you away; you know that now. You know it wasn’t real. I would do anything for you. It doesn’t matter what you are, I want you, in whatever way I can have you. I screwed up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

The pew groaned as Dean shifted uneasily, eyes downcast. Cas turned away from him and moved to stand. As he squeezed past Dean’s knees to escape, he tripped on the kneeler with a surprised grunt, and Dean’s hands shot to Cas’ waist to steady him before he fell completely. Castiel stared at him for a breath, hands clenched around Dean’s shoulders, before he pushed Dean away. The burst of winter air signaling his exit was not as cold as the space he left behind. Dean sagged back against the bench, mind and stomach churning as the choir sang on.

_“Peace on the Earth, good will to men, from heaven’s all gracious King.” The world in solemn stillness lay to hear the angels sing._

  
*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

There was a Christmas tree waiting for them in the Bunker.

Kevin was gone, but the artificial tree he discovered in the Men of Letters storage was not. It was something he mentioned to them in casual passing months before, seemingly dropped and disregarded as quickly as he brought it up. Dean had forgotten about it until he and Sam once returned early from a hunt, and he caught Kevin dragging the disintegrating box down the hall, an incriminating trail of cardboard and plastic pine needles behind him. They had looked like something out of an old western shoot-out, poised there at opposite ends of the hall, Kevin in embarrassment and Dean in confusion (the leaves were nowhere near changing, and _Dr. Sexy_ hadn’t even returned for its new season yet). One beat, two, passed awkwardly before Kevin, blushing, sputtered, “ _I just, I figured. Why not?”_ He shared a hesitant smile then, looking like the teenager he barely was anymore. That, more than anything, doused any rising protests and made Dean grin widely in return. “ _Sure. Why the hell not,”_ and helped him heave the box the rest of the way.

It sat there for months, waiting for them. Dean had (foolishly) pictured it, in the moments before he realized his brother was being held hostage under his nose, before he had to lie to Cas and tear himself away, before Charlie eased on down the Yellow Brick Road, before Kevin – yeah, he pictured it.

Sam, Charlie, and Kevin would have been huddled around the tree, discussing the strategic placement of lights and the proper tinsel:branch ratio. Dean would have been well on his way to getting sloshed on spiked eggnog, and Cas, well. Cas would have been _there_. In those hazy moments before he dropped off to sleep, Dean never quite figured out what Cas might be doing in this scenario. Hovering near the lights, perhaps, leaning close while the gentle glow made his eyes glitter. Maybe he would curl up on one of the oversized chairs while some classic Christmas movie ( _Die Hard_ , probably) played in the background. Or maybe he would be content to sit next to Dean by the fire and watch the others argue cheerfully, his own drink in hand. And maybe the buzz of alcohol and old-fashioned holiday cheer would have made Dean feel brave enough to lean closer to him, throw an arm around his shoulders, perhaps whisper those things to him he could never quite bring himself to say.

There were so many possibilities that Dean couldn’t nail one down. It was enough for him, he had decided, that Cas would be there. Cas would be there, and so would Sam, Charlie, Kevin –

 

In the end, it obviously wasn’t anything like that.

After the three of them returned to the Bunker, Cas quietly snuck away to corners unknown, while Dean and Sam eventually found themselves drifting toward the den, eyeing each other somberly. In unspoken agreement, they set the tree up in reverent silence in the corner, near the fireplace, near the ragged chair where Dean would sometimes find Kevin passed out, limp fingers loosely clinging to a dog-eared novel. The tree itself was. Well, it looked a little pathetic, if he was being honest: it was a scrawny thing, full of bare spots, little papery needles scattered and lost from strain and rough handling. Its worn, gaunt appearance belied its stubborn strength, though, because it stood tall as it held the heavy strands of bulbs with dignity, made their haphazardly placed tinsel look neat and orderly, wore their shitty paper garland with grace and humility. They left the angel-topper with its crooked halo at the bottom of the storage box; it seemed appropriate. The gentle light glowed warmly through the branches, and the room felt fuller, more complete while it was there.

Later, alone, Dean found himself tearing up as he stared at the damn thing. His breath caught high in his throat, thinking, _It’s Kevin_. And what a stupid thought to have, comparing a person to an old, fake Christmas tree, of all things. But he couldn’t help but to think of him. Couldn’t help but think of what might have been.

He felt like an idiot when Cas wandered in silently as he stood in front of the tree, shoulders shaking and fists tight. Dean was glad the room was dark, save for the soft multi-colored lights, because it meant Castiel couldn’t see his wet eyes or splotchy cheeks. Or maybe he could, what with his newfound mojo, but he at least gave Dean the dignity of not mentioning it if he did. Cas only stepped closer to Dean, enough that Dean could feel the heat rolling off of him, as he had in the church. Cas glanced at him briefly before turning his gaze to the tree. Dean watched as he looked up and down, at the lights, at the decoration. His examination paused at the imperfections, but he smiled gently even though his eyes were sad when he stared back at Dean.

“It is beautiful, Dean. He would be pleased.”

Dean said nothing, had to clench his jaw and look away, back toward the corner, even as he unconsciously swayed into the steadfast strength of him. He didn’t have to say anything. Dean may have thought he was fluent in Castiel, but he was fooling himself if Castiel wasn’t just as fluent in Dean.

Cas didn’t need his words. He knew.

  
*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Dean was a man of action.

Which, he decided, in the days leading up to Christmas, might actually work to his advantage. While they hadn’t exactly officially agreed to celebrate Christmas – despite the presence of Kevin’s decked-out tree – Dean had seen Sam sneaking around with suspiciously plain boxes and too-innocent expressions, so he figured they were on the same page. Regardless, after everything that had gone down, Dean wanted to do something for his brother, and he wanted to do something for Cas, especially after finally knowing a definitive reason for his drawn-out silences and aimless wandering.

He knew exactly what he would do for Castiel as soon as he had stepped across the threshold of the church and stumbled into the Impala, incense clinging to his clothes. It was probably stupid, but to him, it was going to be one of the biggest gestures he had ever made to anyone. Outside of the whole “dying for you” thing, which was decidedly difficult to wrap.

Whenever Dean thought about it he could feel his heart jump into in throat, pulse beating double time, hands turning embarrassingly sweaty. He had unintentionally freaked out the teenaged kid at the hardware store that helped him with half of the gift, tripping over his words and rubbing his shaking hands over his jeans as he explained what he needed.

In the end, besides a trip to Archive 17C and the hardware store in town (the one he was probably never allowed back into), Cas’ gift didn’t take much effort. Physical effort, to be exact; emotionally, Dean felt like a goddamn wreck. At night, when he lay awake in bed, he swung wildly between the worry that it wouldn’t be enough for Cas, and then that it was far too much; concern that Cas wouldn’t understand what he was offering, and that he would and would still not accept it; anxiety that it would tell Cas _everything_ on his behalf, and anxiety that it would speak for him, as hoped, but Cas would be deaf to it.        

Late Christmas Eve – late enough where he supposed it was technically Christmas morning – after Sam was asleep and Castiel wandered off to haunt the halls of the Bunker, Dean found himself in front of their tree, turning a small package over in his hands as he stared absently at the lights. Cas’ aching voice, his confusion, his loneliness, echoed in his mind. _Don’t make promises you can’t keep._ Even though the memory cemented his resolve, Dean still flushed nervously as he bent to place the gift underneath their appropriately misfit tree, needles tickling his knuckles as they brushed the branches.

Dean was a man of action and, really, words never quite worked between him and Cas, anyway. Their best communication was done in the spaces between. After everything they had been through, together and apart, after everything he’s done – _they’ve_ done – to themselves and one another, after all of the things said and left unsaid –

_Where do I belong?_

He hoped this would be answer enough.

  
*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

There were several packages stacked neatly beneath the tree on Christmas Day, but there was one that was much smaller than the others. Only in size, of course. By intent, by feeling, the room would not have been able to contain it. Tucked carefully inside a handcrafted wooden box, carved with strange sigils, were two keys.  One was rather plain, standard, with the word _Baby_ etched in tight, stiff lines across the bow. The other was a bit bigger, more ornate, made of wrought iron, with complicated markings winding above the conversely simple teeth, and imbued with earthly magic. Accompanying the package was a folded piece of plain brown paper, as large as the box itself: a note, attached carefully with a thin red string. To anyone who read it, the handwritten message was incomplete. It read like half of a conversation.

But to the recipient, who, with the note and gift open in his lap, stared, dumbfounded and touched, at the man who had given it to him, it meant something far more. Enough to slip incrementally closer to him on the worn, musty sofa. Enough to furtively brush his fingers over the man’s calloused hand, to tangle them together and squeeze gently in gratitude, in the insignificant space between them. Enough to fully meet the man’s eyes and offer a tentative, genuine smile, sparking a warm response of relief, of affection.

To the recipient, it read like half of a conversation.

Like an answer.

_Cas,_

_With us.  
With  me. _

_Always,  
Dean_

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted for [12 Days of Destiel](http://12daysofdestiel.tumblr.com/post/70511862964/author-tardisy-no-matter-how-far-away-you).
> 
> Happy holidays!


End file.
